Snark And The Insensible
by Sassy SOBettes
Summary: DONE! Marcus Flint sets on a mission to ruin the life of a particular Gryffindor, with unforeseen consequences. Stealing someone's girlfriend is a simple affair, hmm? Think again! FlintClearwater fic. It works, I swear!
1. Demented Detention

Ravyn: This is Thalia's and my attempt to take over the world by sheer profusion of ebil plotting - including snarkiness, Slytherins, and other such good things. Enjoy!

Thalia: Yes. This will have some very odd pairings. But it promises to be highly interesting nonetheless. And if anyone can make it work, it's us ;) There shall be lots of snark, of course… and lots of fun stuff as well! Review and reassure us that you love us! ::bats eyelashes::

Disclaimer: Do you think we own Harry Potter? Yes? Okay. If you do, I won't do anything to dispel the delusion ;) ::cackles and takes advantage of::

_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me._

~*Demented Detention*~

Gryffindors, he decided for not the first time, were the bane of the universe.

Nevermind that the rest of the bloody school thought the precise opposite.

Damn Wood. Damn Potter. Damn Malfoy and his bone-headed scheme with the damn Dementors.

Damn McGonagall for taking FIFTY BLOODY POINTS... it wasn't even as if Potter had been injured... and then... and then, besides the half angry, half smug Gryffindorks... there was Percy Weasel.

Weasel the Insufferable Head Boy from Hell.

Bloody smirking and shaking his head like some sententious bastard who...

Marcus Flint wanted to bash the prat's teeth in, just thinking about it. Damn Percy Weasley too... and damn his smug Head Boy holier-than-thou attitude. Damn the badge.

Damn the Gryffindorks and their perfect little lives.

With these happy thoughts in mind, he stalked out of the Slytherin Common Room, scowling blackly. He had a detention to go to.

~*~

If in a single, spiteful glare there were the power to clean a room, the Hogwarts entrance hall would have been cleaner than it ever had been in all that bloody book Granger was always going on about. As there wasn't, Draco was still faced with the keenly unpleasant task of cleaning it himself.

Without magic.

With… whatever the hell the strange red plastic brush he'd been given was. Bloody Muggles and their insane… teethbrush things.

Crabbe had already set about polishing the banisters, carefully enough that Filch would find it satisfactory, but in enough time that the staircase would not decide to move and leave the Slytherin hanging. Goyle, meanwhile, had begun dusting the picture frames and was being squawked at by a particularly sour portrait of an old witch who glared down at him between sneezes. 

Flint looked most unhappy, already on his knees and scrubbing angrily at the filthy hall floor. He and Draco had unquestionably been given the hardest task (Draco would have thought that, with mouths like Granger's, Muggles could afford to make these brushes a bit bigger), but then again, considering that their accomplices could easily have been mistaken for mountain trolls, it was quite obvious why he and Flint had been deemed the ringleaders – and therefore received harsher punishments. 

It was also quite obvious that, were it not for these two mountain trolls, Flint may well have murdered him where he stood.

Yes, this detention, coupled with Gryffindor's victory (despite their efforts to change this), definitely had not made Flint a happy Slytherin.

So, with Flint's relative mood in mind, Draco got down on his knees and began to clean – or at least made some semblance of it. In all honesty, not only did he despise such menial labor, but, with so many servants to scrub the floors of Malfoy Manor (and house elves to clean the floors for their servants), Draco wasn't used to this sort of thing. He gazed at the bucket of soapy water suspiciously, as if even the soap were not clean enough for him, and then tentatively plunged his toothbrush into the bubbling liquid. 

Stupid Filch. Stupid McGonagall. Stupid, bloody Potter. This was all his fault. He should be here scrubbing floors, not Draco. And on top of it all, his brush was red. Gryffindor red, he thought, glaring down at it. The red of Potter's Quidditch robes. The red of Weasel's hair. The red the little Weasel's cheeks whenever he teased her about Potter…

A flash of the same red, and he saw another Weasel coming down the stairs. (Merlin, they were everywhere. A bloody plague, that family.) But it wasn't one of Potter's pets; it was – whatever the hell his name was. The smart ass one who'd sucked up to Dumbledore enough to be made Head Boy.

Insufferable git.

That seemed to be about what Flint was thinking; he admittedly wasn't fond of the Gryffindors, but Draco had never seen him glare with quite so much loathing – except perhaps at Wood.

"Good evening, Flint. How do you do?"

If, by any sort of miracle, Weasley had been expecting a civilized greeting in return, he was sorely disappointed.

"Really, Flint, there's no need to be angry at me just because you got yourself a detention. You got off easy, if you ask me. Were I Professor McGonagall, I would have given you a much harsher punishment for something as foolish as what you did. Harry could have been seriously hurt –"

"Weasley, if I'd wanted your pompous, self-righteous opinion, I'd have asked for it."

"That's understandable – for someone with all the wit and intelligence of a Wit-Sharpening Potion to which someone's forgotten to add the scarab beetle."

"Are you finished, Weasley, or did Clearwater finally notice what a prat you are and now you have nothing better to do than stand over me and gloat?"

Interesting, Draco thought. He'd never noticed just how much the two seventh years seemed to hate each other. Obviously, there was quite a house rivalry between most of the Slytherin and Gryffindorks, but, well, this was just…

…Amusing as hell.

"Actually, I have got some business to attend to. I've got to see Penny about that ten Galleons. See, we had a little bet going on the match this afternoon, and since your pathetic attempt at sabotage failed, I won."

"Ten Galleons, Weasley? Merlin, what would you have done if you lost? Your entire family isn't worth a whole ten Galleons."

Yes, there was definitely something going on here, Draco thought, the detention and dirty floors by now completely forgotten. Either their sore house rivalry had been nursed so intensely for six long years that they were no longer capable of looking at each other with anything less than loathing…

…Or they were shagging each other rotten.

At that most… unpleasant and disgusting mental image, Draco was sorely tempted to vomit… until he realized that it would mean him, cleaning the mess up himself. On his knees. With the bloody tooth brush thing.

"Are you really so stupid that you can't tell I'm busy here?" Flint was snarling at Percy Weasley, evidently too tired to come up with suitable comebacks. "Sod off, you redheaded loser!"

Weasley gave him a complacent, condescending sort of look. Yes. A look of _condescension._ From a Weasel. And then he spoke, wrinkling his nose in a manner that would have done Draco's own father proud. Well, had his father recovered from the apoplectic shock of seeing his favourite sneer being borrowed (without express written permission) by one of _that_ family.

"No, Flint. I'm not the loser. You are. In every sense of the word. Tell me… besides Quidditch, which you really aren't even that good at unless you cheat… what area _aren't_ I better than you in?"

With that last parting shot, Percy Weasley, Head Boy badge glittering in a manner most offensive to the Slytherins' eyes, stalked off, his head held high.

Draco chanced a look at his Quidditch captain's face… and almost flinched.

They'd always thought that Percy Weasel was too wussy to be in Gryffindor… but to incite that look… yes, he was one of the brave and stupid all right.

Whatever heinousness Flint had in mind, though… remained to be seen.

It would be a very good show. He was sure of it.

Well, assuming he survived this degrading, bloody detention…

~*~


	2. Perfectly Insane

Thalia: Reviews would be highly appreciated. And offerings of ferret plushies and money. Enjoy the snark.

Ravyn: Finally we get to some gratuitous D/G action - as well as the obligatory snark and mention of poisonous substances. Enjoy! And review to improve my self-esteem. XD

Disclaimer: Go and knit a Weasley jumper if you've resorted to reading disclaimers to counter your boredom.

_In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane. (Oscar Wilde)_

~*Perfectly Insane*~ 

On top of Malfoy's ridiculous plan failing, on top of a bloody night on his knees scrubbing floors, and on top of the derision of that Big Head Boy, Marcus had lost the opportunity to study that night for his Arithmancy exam – an opportunity that he needed quite badly. True, it had been his failing grade from that crazy bint McGonagall that had forced him to repeat a year, but he couldn't afford to let his Arithmancy marks slip. And now he was forced to spend his lunch in the library to make up for this lost time.

His only consolation was that Weasley, obsessively studious as he was, would probably be buried up to the tip of his freckled rodent nose in books by now. He was in the mood just about now for another round of the fight they'd had last night.

But, upon reaching the musty old shelves of books containing more about disillusionment charms, diricawls, and divining the future from a cup of half drunk tea than any sane person would ever want to know, he saw no sign of his foe. There were a few scattered Ravenclaws, two of his housemates poring over a particularly nasty looking volume, and of course, the Granger girl in a corner, muttering to herself and studying as if her heart would stop if she dared look up from her work. But he saw no perfectly groomed red hair, no shining Head Boy badge, and no self-righteous, gitty expression.

He did, however, notice the self-righteous git's girlfriend sitting alone, occasionally jotting down notes as she skimmed through a rather uninviting text entitled _Twisted Time-Savers: One-hundred Deadly Draughts Brewed in Less than Twenty Minutes._

He sneered slightly, before walking up to her and clearing his throat. "Well... look who we have here."

Penelope Clearwater slowly lifted her eyes from her book, and when she saw who it was, addressing her, raised a delicate eyebrow. "Flint." Her voice was cool, civil... but rather surprised. Her hands had tightened slightly on the book's cover. Perhaps she was afraid of him... like so many were.

She was no bloody Gryffindork, after all.

He pointed at the book in her hands, and gave her a smirk, "What's that for? Planning on offing Weasley, or offing yourself for dating the git?"

She stared at him for a moment in surprise, wondering what in the world he was up to... sure, he hated Percy, and Percy disliked him, but...

But she certainly couldn't let him bully her around, if that was his intention. And it probably was...

In a measured voice, she sighed and addressed him, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but just because you contemplate doing certain things, doesn't mean that I contemplate doing the same sorts of things."

Flint stared at her, both in shock that the quiet little mouse that he had been certain Penelope Clearwater was... had actually spoken to him in reply to his jibe... and that she had kept her voice relatively calm. An odd, perhaps possessed bint, to be sure. The ones who did snap back at him were always belligerent. But then, of course she was mad. She was dating the Weasel.

At his rather dumbfounded expression, Penelope gave a patient, very proper-Prefectly sort of explanation. "Well, surely... I meant that you and I have rather different opinions of Percy... unless you want to date him as well," she said gently.

Marcus found himself sputtering in half-shock, half-disgust. Yes... MAD bint, this one... but rather witty, actually. It must be her madness that made her date Pompous Weasel. Of course.

"I'm sorry, but if that is the case, I don't think Percy would agree," she was saying softly, "It's something that's less likely to happen than one of you Slytherins declaring undying love for a Muggleborn." Having said so, she stood, book and parchment in hand, and gave him a small nod. "Good day, Flint."

She silently walked away from him and disappeared off to heaven knew where within seconds. And Marcus Flint stared at the spot where she had been sitting a moment earlier, rather taken aback.

So this was Weasel's perfect girlfriend.

How... interesting.

And as he flicked a lock of curly brown hair off the windowsill, he smirked.

After what seemed like the longest lunch he'd ever had, Flint made his way back to the Slytherin common room. His mind was so full of Arithmancy figures - and a surprisingly snarky Ravenclaw - that he barely acknowledged the purely evil glare that Malfoy was exchanging with the Weasley girl. 

_"Listen, Weasel, don't you have a hero to be fawning after, or have you finally come to your senses and realized that Potter can only dream of being as attractive as I am?"_

Honestly, any girl that would subject herself to dating a Weasley - especially that Weasley - must be out of her tree. Unless… perhaps he was blackmailing her.

Yes, that must be it. That would be just like Pervy Weasel. He may act sanctimonious to the point of wanting to beat the smug look from his freckled face with a Quidditch bat, but Flint could easily believe that he'd had to resort to something so underhanded to get any girl - make that anything with eyes - to agree to a relationship with him.

_"You're just jealous of Harry because he's everything you'll never be!" Ginny spat back at Draco, who managed to show no sign of this struck nerve aside from the involuntary pink tinge of his cheeks._

Or perhaps he'd slipped Clearwater a love potion. Of course, that kind of magic was illegal, but would take someone as utterly obsessed with the rules as Weasley to know just how to manage a potion like that.

_"Jealous of Potter? I think living with so many males -  if they can in fact be classified as males - has affected your female intuition, Weasley. I'd sooner be jealous of the dragon that has to fly behind the guy with bladder control issues."_

Yes, Weasley was definitely up to something. Or perhaps he wasn't controlling her at all. Perhaps he'd just gone down to St. Mungo's to find the nearest semblance to a girlfriend he could find.

_"Yes, Malfoy, jealous. That is in your vocabulary, isn't it? Or am I not mistaken in thinking the only words you know are 'my father?' No matter, I know I'm not mistaken about Harry. He's better at Quidditch than you, he's got more friends than you, and he's a better kisser than you."_

_"As if you'd know," Malfoy shot back. He glanced at Flint, as if looking for support, but the older Slytherin was too entranced to notice. "The only thing you've ever kissed is Potter's arse."_

_"Better that than your face."_

_"Oh, I don't know…" Draco casually examined his nails before flashing her a smirk and asking, "Care to find out?"_

The Weasley girl's sound of disgust and stinging reply were lost to Flint as he trailed down the dungeon stairs to the door of the Slytherin common room. The entrance had barely shut behind him when his fellow Chaser, Cassius Warrington, greeted him from where he sprawled on a leather couch. 

"Oi, Flint! Are we feeling enlightened and enthralled after our little study hall? What's next, nap time?"

But for the second time, Flint didn't notice a teammate – that is, until Warrington reached out an arm and caught Flint in the chest with his Advanced Transfiguration book. "All right, Flint?" he asked his Quidditch captain. "You look like you've just seen McGonagall in the shower."

Flint finally responded with a look of pure disgust. "Well I was all right until you brought that image into my head."

"What's going on, then?"

Instead of answering, Flint posed a question of his own. "You wouldn't happen to know when Clearwater's next rounds are, would you?"

Warrington grinned. "Why? Planning a little snogfest with Miss Perfect Prefect?"

Flint just gazed into the distance, a faint smile playing on his lips. "We'll see."

  



	3. AfterHour Altercations

Ravyn: Enjoy the snark! Enjoy the hitting on Warrington! Enjoy the Slytherin depravity! And most of all enjoy the after-party during which we will attempt to scour the butterbeer off Draco. XD

Thalia: Yes. There are flirtatious mirrors and many, many hot guys. There is much Warrington, which obviously (if you know us at ALL) means much smart-assed hilarity. It would be nice to leave us a review too, once in a while *glares*.

Disclaimer: Please. Do you see US making millions and breaking records selling a much-awaited 5th book? Thalia claims to own Warrington, but no one really believes her yet.

_For all their strength, men were sometimes like little children._

~*~After-Hour Altercations~*~

Rounds, Penelope decided, were a good thing.

They were highly predictable. The same corridors, the same paintings and statuary passed. The same grouchy Filch prowling about and giving anyone who passed evil looks. The same students (who never seemed to learn, despite ever-increasing numbers of points deducted) snogging in the same trysting spots.

Rounds did not require a lot of thought, and therefore were optimal times to ponder other things.

Like that strange encounter with the Slytherin captain in the library. The Ravenclaw girl felt herself frowning slightly, recalling it.

What in the world did Flint want, anyway? It wasn't as if he'd ever spoken to her before, besides a curt word here and there, generally followed by derogatory comments towards Percy.

But that was only when Percy was THERE. Flint never spoke to her when Percy wasn't around. She and he really had nothing to do with each other.

"Don't frown, dearie, that expression might stay on your face," her mirror admonished in a matronly manner, startling her out of her thoughts. "Whoever it is, I'm sure he means well, lassie. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

Penelope was almost tempted to laugh. Marcus Flint, meaning well?

Never. It would be... impossible.

Her chin raised almost haughtily, she stepped out of her dormitory and then out of the Ravenclaw Common Room. It was eight o'clock. Curfew.

Meanwhile, in another part of Hogwarts castle, another Prefect was standing before another talking mirror while preparing for rounds. However, this prefect was hardly concerned with Marcus Flint, and this mirror was not very motherly.

"You look fabulous, darling," it purred down at him. "And so tall… You know what they say about tall men."

Warrington smirked to himself, running his fingers through his dark fringe once more. He'd really have to ask Malfoy where he got this mirror. It was no wonder the Slytherin Seeker had an ego that could fill the Quidditch pitch; he even had inanimate objects brazenly coming on to him.

"Leaving so soon?" the mirror mourned as he turned away. "I was hoping you'd stay a while. It's not every day I see such a dark, handsome Slytherin…"

Interesting as this conversation was for him, he still had rounds to drag him from the mirror and the lazy comfort of the Slytherin common room. He made his way through the labyrinth of leather couches, passing Draco in idle conversation with Blaise Zabini over the tops of their Potions essays, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass exchanging a smug (and slightly suspicious) snicker, and Head Girl Susannah Caligo wildly berating a group of fourth years for their antics in scaring younger students with what they claimed were Professor McGonagall's knickers.

Though he could not have known this, the things Penelope Clearwater found soothing about prefects' rounds were the same things that made them so very dull for Cassius Warrington. It was almost tedious, and at times he caught himself wondering how exactly this was a privilege. 

That is, until he remembered the elite treatment he received because of the silver and green badge on his chest: the prefects' bathroom, the private bedroom that Snape afforded all prefects in his house, the near-flawless excuse to be anywhere at any time…

All right, so perhaps it _was_ worth it to wander the corridors for a few hours at night, just waiting for the telltale giggle of a snogging couple or the sharp intake of breath that meant someone had just realized they were going to be caught out after hours. Besides, the ability to hand out detentions to the Gryffindorks for "disrespecting school authority" if they so much as looked at him oddly was quite satisfying.

And tonight, he thought smugly at the sound of raised voices down a nearby corridor, might just be one of those worthwhile nights…

"… wouldn't care if you'd just caught the ruddy Minister of Magic eating marmalade in the halls after hours, if it gave you a chance to rub that stupid badge of yours in everyone else's face, you'd be stuffing detentions down his throat, too." 

The voice was quite familiar; Cassius had heard it many times, barking orders to him across the Quidditch pitch. And the haughty tone that retorted was just as recognizable. _Flint and Weasel are at it again_, he smirked to himself. _Well, I can't say it won't be interesting. _And it was fascinating, in a morbid way, to watch the two fight – not unlike watching a train wreck. Or Hufflepuffs snogging. 

"I can assure you, _Flint_" – the amount of distaste Weasley managed to put into that single word was surprising, even considering the disgustingly vile relationship he had with the Slytherin – "that if you are by some sick twist of fate made Minister of Magic, I'll be out of the county so quickly I'd break Geoffrey Schultz's record for fastest flight on a broomstick."

"Merlin, Weasley, can you manage a single conversation that's not riddled with inane facts and words so ridiculously long that every normal person has forgotten the definitions? We all know that you think you're better than everyone else."

"And in your case, everyone else thinks it, too."

"You smarmy, stuck up, stinking piece of – "

"Easy, Flint," Cassius said, rounding the corner just in time to see Flint glaring fiercely at Weasley, his grip on his wand so tight that his fingers were white. "I for one don't intend to spend the rest of my night cleaning up bits of Weasley in the hallway. If you're going to blow him up, at least have the decency to do it outside."

Cassius was obviously not the only prefect who'd heard their little row; his last comment was awarded with an admonishing look from Penelope Clearwater, who'd just reached the corridor. She brushed by the two Slytherins to stand faithfully by Percy's side. However, Warrington didn't miss the timid glance she cast over her shoulder at Flint as she passed. 

"Are you all right, darling?" she asked Percy gently. 

"I'll be better once we get out of here." Apparently Percy had noticed the look shared between Flint and Clearwater as well. He made sure to cast a fierce glare at Flint before turning to leave the scene, a possessive arm around Penelope's shoulders as he guided her down the corridor away from them.

There was a moment of silence as the two rounded a corner and disappeared during which Cassius was almost positive he heard Flint heave a small sigh beside him. 

"Come on," Warrington said, not quite sure what he'd just seen – not to mention how to react to it. "It's nearly nine – I'm sure the blatant debauchery's just getting started in the common room. If we hurry, we should be able to grab a few butterbeers before Malfoy gets pissed, insults the whole house, and gets all the drinks poured over his head."

Flint grinned appreciatively and walked with his friend back towards the dungeons. It was quiet for another spell before Warrington spoke up again.

"So… what was that about, anyway?"

"Oh, you know," the Quidditch captain replied, "Weasley's always been a pretentious prat…"

"That's not what I meant."

"What, Clearwater? It's nothing."

"Ah," and Cassius smirked slightly. "Just don't get into too much trouble doing… _nothing_, all right?"

Flint shared in the smirk, but before he could say anything, Warrington had uttered the password to a blank dungeon wall, which moved back to reveal the degradation that had erupted since Warrington had last seen the common room.

"Oh, please, Pucey," Malfoy's unmistakable voice reached them over all the others. "You wouldn't recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of you playing a small mandolin and wearing a sign that says 'I'm a joke. You're supposed to laugh now, stupid.' I – HEY! Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to get butterbeer out of silk?!" 

"Ah." Cassius heaved a great sigh, looking fondly around at the great mess that a prefect from any other house would have feared. "Home."


	4. Tutoring Troubles

Thalia: We're back with Marcus and the dislike of Gryffindors and Transfiguration. I'm sure, however, that he will learn to like it. For some reason or another. And of course, more requisite snark.

Ravyn: Another chapter, another bout of snark, another stripping Slytherin. Read, be amused, and if you love us, leave a review. *g*

Disclaimer: If Thalia had owned the hot Quidditch guys, she would have been MUCH more *cough* busy than she had been when the lights went out at her house.

_Education is a method whereby one acquires a higher grade of prejudices. (Laurence J. Peter)___

~*~ Tutoring Troubles ~*~

Part of the reason (okay, 3987651 reasons and counting...) that Marcus hated Gryffindor and Gryffindors was the fact that the head of that despicably pompous House was an anal-retentive, demanding, self-righteous bint... who happened to teach his worst subject.

Really, the only appeal there WAS in Transfiguration was the prospect of changing some particularly annoying Gryffindork (Weasley came to mind) into a broiled catfish... but the amount of effort involved in learning that spell wasn't truly worth the result. Not to mention, he'd probably be made to scrub the bloody Great Hall with a bloody toothbrush.

He almost swore aloud when McGonagall, looking particularly pinched and forbidding, told him to remain after class.

"Mr. Flint," she started, even before the other students had finished filing out of the classroom, "You HAVE to study harder for my class. I insist that you perform in a more satisfactory and diligent manner in this subject."

He went as close to sneering at her as he thought he could get away with, but remained silent as she went into a long tirade about his test scores and his attitude and the lack of effort into his homework assignments and his impertinence in class and...

'Bloody hell, why don't you harp on whether or not I wash behind my ears too, you wretched hag?' he thought ferociously to himself.

"And I DO wish that you would take care not to present such a careless figure of yourself in class."

Close enough.

"All right already," Marcus cut in, scowling, "I'll study for the next test."

"I know you will," McGonagall's voice was too smooth. He felt his suspicions rise.

"I'm appointing you a tutor," the Transfiguration professor continued with the air of bequeathing a particularly large present, "One of the finest students in this school. I'm sure he will be willing to help you. He's quite responsible, after all."

"And whom might this be?"

"Percy Weasley."

Marcus was left debating between homicide and suicide.

~*~

Another week, another night of rounds.

Cassius sighed to himself, resigned to the next few hours of aimless wandering, made up for by the occasional chance to flaunt his prefectly powers in the face of his fellow students.

Never mind that he was missing the strip chess tournament that had begun in the Slytherin common room when Blaise Zabini had questioned Susannah Caligo's prowess in the game. Even the Head Girl could not ignore the challenge, and, as usual, the situation had erupted from there.

Ah, well. Perhaps he could just circle the entrance hall a few times and sneak away while no one was around…

"Good evening, Cassius."

Damn. Well, it had been a good plan, anyway.

"'Lo, Penelope," he returned politely to the dark-haired girl as she approached down the stairs. "Seen anything worth docking house points for yet?"

She smiled – not a Slytherin smirk, or the pompous look of disapproval he'd have received from a Gryffindor, but a casual, passing smile. "Just the usual."

"Ah, just the wild, rampaging adolescent hormones, then?" He grinned, falling in beside her.

"Something along those lines, yes."

Well, no sign of madness yet. Perhaps Marcus was just a little too biased by his blinding rage towards Weasel to accept that his girlfriend might just be completely sane.

"And speaking of wild, rampaging hormones… how's Weasley?"

The use of those particular words to describe him seemed to amuse her, as it was about as accurate as calling Malfoy a sweet, huggable bunny rabbit of a boy. "He's… well, he's a bit preoccupied lately, what with being Head Boy, not to mention all the homework and tutoring and house rivalries going on lately…"

"Oh?" He tried to sound casual, but he knew full well that she was referring to the trouble that had sprung up between Weasley and Flint lately – well, more so than for the last six years.

"Well… you must have noticed. Ever since that last Quidditch match, Percy and Marcus have been…"

"Utter prats?"

Her mouth curled up in a faint smile. "You could say that."

Warrington grinned at the slight tremor in her voice when she'd mentioned Flint's name. He was really going to enjoy her reaction to his next comment…

"Ought to be some interesting Transfiguration lessons, eh?"

She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway; he could almost see her sharp Ravenclaw mind working out the implications of what he'd said, but she still questioned him, a frown wrinkling her brow. "Sorry?"

"Oh, you hadn't heard? Flint told me earlier that he's being tutored in Transfiguration. McGonagall's asked Weasley to do it. Sorry, I thought he'd have mentioned it…"

His apology went unnoticed, and he knew that where her eyes fell on the window, she was not seeing the night sky outside, but the same thing he'd pictured when a furious Flint had informed him of this situation: Flint and Weasley at each other's throats – literally. She was a smart girl. He was sure he'd come to the same conclusion he had.

Only one of the two seventh years would emerge from those lessons alive.

"But surely… I mean, Professor McGonagall must know…" Penny trailed off, looking almost helpless.

"I guess she's a bit busy with classes and detentions to notice the murderous glares," Warrington said. "But… I suppose, if we knew who the other Transfiguration tutor was, we could talk to them about taking Flint on."

She glanced at him sharply, her face no less relieved. "I'm the other Transfiguration tutor," she told him, and with her sweet voice he could almost ignore the accusatory note. After all, as a fellow prefect, he'd known that perfectly well. 

"Oh, that's right. Well, that works out nicely, doesn't it? Unless, of course, you have a problem with tutoring Marcus?"

It was all he could do to keep from grinning as he awaited her reply.

"No," she managed after a moment. "No, of course not."

"Well," and he just had to smile beatifically at her. "I guess it's settled, then."

"I suppose…"

"Well, it's been a pleasure, Miss Clearwater," he said in all honesty as he glanced down at his watch, which instead of the exact time informed him, 'You can get away with going back to the commons now.' "But I've got a Defense Against the Dark Arts essay waiting for me back on my desk…"

"Good night, Cassius," she said a bit absently, and she didn't even look up before turning the next corner without him.

Warrington returned to the common room feeling quite pleased with himself. Flint was going to be quite pleased as well, he thought, but when the door to the common room opened, he quickly forgot about the conversation with his Quidditch captain. 

The chess tournament had obviously been going quite well; no sooner had he entered the room than Blaise Zabini was starting to remove his boxers. Many of the girls in the audience the game had drawn were cheering, but Malfoy quickly leapt from his seat to stop his dorm mate. 

"For Merlin's sake, Zabini, you've still got socks on!"

"Yes, but if I take my socks off, my feet will get cold."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Warrington muttered to himself, "I really don't know why they insist on sending us on rounds. We'd obviously do more good right here."

His opinion was quickly changed, however, when a pair of black silk boxers landed at his feet.


	5. Flowers and Facades

Ravyn: In this chapter, we have some interesting Transfiguration lessons: Marcus is a git, Penny loses her temper, and on top of that, you'll find out something about Salazar Slytherin you never knew you didn't want to know. XD

Thalia: And we have sexual tension, because sexual tension is our friend. I want a green lily from a Slytherin Quidditch God TOO, dammit!

Disclaimer: We'll come up with a witty disclaimer after we've finished glomping ferrets and being ebil.

_My work is a game, a very serious game. (M. C. Escher)_

~*~ Flowers and Facades ~*~

It wasn't something that she WANTED to do, that was for sure. If she'd... had a choice... she wouldn't. Really.

But Penelope was a responsible girl. This was necessary. A necessary evil, perhaps.

For her own peace of mind... and Percy's safety, of course.

She would tutor... THAT person. In Transfiguration.

It wasn't truly her best subject, although it was one of her better ones. She would be up to it, academically.

Whether or not her sanity and soul might survive this... remained to be seen.

But Professor McGonagall, despite a few rather dubious glances and evident doubt of her sanity, had agreed, and had merely switched his tutoring sessions so that they fell upon her, rather than Percy.

She took a deep breath, and gave Cho Chang, who was sitting in the Common Room, a small smile as she walked out. Cho, friend though she certainly was, didn't know. Penelope... had not told anyone of these new arrangements. No one would have understood.

Not even Percy.

She reached the appointed classroom, opened the door, and waited.   
  
She had ten more minutes before potential chaos. 

Assuming he would arrive on time.

~*~

An irate Marcus Flint slammed down the hallway, glowering angrily and gnashing his teeth.

Bloody tutoring.

Bloody Weasley.

Oh, but if Weasley were to say anything (and being Weasley, he most certainly would)... he'd literally be bloody.

But there was no getting out of tutoring. Both Warrington and Susannah had informed him, the former looking oddly almost smug and the latter looking rather stern... that it was necessary. He'd just have to go and deal with it.

Meaning, he'd have to remain silent for as long as he felt inclined to, before "transfiguring" Weasley into a bruised and bloodied pulp.

He reached the door of the classroom, and seeing a light, turned the doorknob and pushed inwards. 

And stared, before smirking.

"And what in the name of Salazar Slytherin's undersized genitals are YOU doing here?" 

Penelope was silent for a moment, as if steeling herself for her reply. Then she raised her chin, not quite challengingly, and said, "I'm your Transfiguration tutor."

"You?" Flint asked incredulously.

"Is there a problem with that?"

The initial shock gone, Marcus had regained his cool composure. "I was just surprised that Weasley would trust his ickle girlfriend with a big, bad Slytherin, that's all. You must have had to force an entire bottle of Sleeping Draught down his throat before you could come." He threw himself into a chair, safely back from the front row, and leaned back in his seat to shoot her a galling smirk. 

In contrast to his slouch, Penny seemed to stand even straighter. "I don't need Percy's protection or his permission. Now, if you'll please, this evening is going to be long enough without you making it even more difficult…"

Flint snickered quietly as she flipped open a worn copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration. She paused to glance up at him. "May I ask what's so funny?"

"You," he answered with a lopsided grin. "Being all business-like. I mean, honestly, you can't be serious about all this…"

She met his eyes again. "McGonagall says you need a Transfiguration tutor," she said simply. "So I'm going to tutor you."

"Silly me. I shouldn't have expected less of Miss Perfect Prefect."

This time, when she looked up, it was the clock above the door her eyes sought. However, she said nothing in reply to his comment. 'Tired already, Miss Clearwater?' Flint thought smugly to himself.

"All right, you'll be on Chapter Nine, then…"

"Aren't you going to wait for the rest of your ickle students?"

She took a deep breath. "There are no other students."

For the second time that evening, Flint didn't know quite what to say. He'd always known McGonagall was an elitist, prejudiced bint, but now it was quite clear to him that she was barking mad. She honestly expected him to spend the entire night studying Transfiguration. With Weasel's girlfriend. 

"So if you'll please turn to Chapter Nine…"

"I don't have my book."

She frowned. "You don't have… why not? Were you expecting a practical lesson?"

"No, I was expecting to come in here, listen to about four words out of Weasley's mouth - 'I told you so,' to be exact - bludgeon him with the largest blunt object I could find, and spend the rest of the evening in detention."

"Honestly, you two!" Flint had the decency to look surprised before smirking at her little outburst. "I don't understand how someone as level-headed and practical as Percy can waste his time and energy on something as stupid as this little rivalry of yours." Flint was looking quite pleased with himself before she turned on him, advancing down the aisle to point an accusatory finger dangerously close to the end of his nose. "And you! You go out of your way to make him angry, for whatever perverse Slytherin pleasure you get out of it, just like - " She trailed off quite suddenly, her eyes wide for just a moment before she frowned. "Just like you're doing to me now," she finished evenly.

Flint only smirked.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, but her eyes were still hardened in a determined frown. "It's just that - well, it won't happen again." 

While the apology seemed less than sincere, the promise to control her temper was obviously for his benefit. He wasn't so sure, though; the Clearwater that had come that close to outright yelling at him seemed quite a bit more interesting than the Clearwater he always saw standing demurely at Weasley's side.

"We'll see," he said.

She turned away from him with an exasperated sigh to retrieve the book on the desk at the front of the room. Wordlessly, she came to sit in the seat next to him, placing the text before him where both of them could see. "Transfiguration is complex, but really…" She acutely felt his intent gaze on her, and paused, but couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "… if you learn to focus, it's…"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, not out of any real interest, but because there was a faint blush on her cheeks that darkened as he drew closer. She stiffened when he made to peer at the page she'd turned to, almost imperceptibly, but he noticed in their proximity. 

"… it's quite straightforward… Perhaps we'll just try a spell or two now, shall we ?" she asked, pushing back from the desk quite suddenly. He arched a brow at her, but she seemed less flustered now that she was standing over him again, and curtly instructed him to take out his quill. He reached into his bag, pulling out an eagle feather quill and laying it on the desk. 

"Something simple to start, then. _Pluma Albucum Immutatum_." She touched her wand to the quill, leaving in its place a stark white lily. With a quick counterspell, his quill was back on the desk, and she was looking at him expectantly. "Your turn."

He glanced dubiously up at her, keeping his expression hard. He was suddenly unsure of himself, not wanting to make a mistake with Miss Perfect Prefect looking over his shoulder. Not that he ever would have admitted that to her. However, he turned his attention to the quill on the desk, focusing on the dark plume, the green ink stains, hoping the spell would work out of sheer force of will…

"_Pluma Albucum Immutatum_."

He took a deep breath, seeing that the spell had in fact worked. He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction, picking up the flower, a perfect… GREEN lily.

That somehow didn't seem right.

"Good," Penelope was saying, without a trace of derision tainting her voice. "Very good. Now, to turn it back…"

"As much fun as all this has been, Clearwater," Flint interrupted smoothly, "it's nearly ten. I hate to think what Weasley would say if he knew his girlfriend was out with a Slytherin after hours."

"Oh," and a quick glance at the clock confirmed this. Time went by surprisingly quickly when one was being tormented by a Slytherin. "All right, then. Any questions before we leave?"

"Just one. What are you going to tell Weasley when he asks where you were?"

"I -" She paused the scene playing through her mind. She really couldn't tell Percy. It was for his own good, but she just didn't think he'd understand. "I really don't think that's any of your business."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a grin. He slung his bag over his shoulder, and she tensed as he stepped towards her until she realised he was simply making his way towards the door. Not for the first time, she reprimanded herself for letting him affect her. After all, it wasn't as if his comments meant anything to her…

He'd paused in front of her, and while she moved quickly out of his way, he didn't continue. His hard green eyes pinned her to the spot, but still he said nothing.

"Same time next week, then?" she asked, doing everything she could to hide her helplessness in that moment.

He shrugged, managing to make that seem almost a stately gesture.

"All right, well, good night, Flint." She turned away from him, very aware that she was blushing, but was stopped by the sound of his voice.

"Wait." 

She turned back to find him quite close, his eyes cool and calm on hers, no hint of a smile on his lips now. She was expecting him to speak, and was quite surprised when he reached out to her instead, gently smoothing a lock of dark curly hair back into place.

"Can't have you looking less than perfect, can we?" And with that for an explanation, he had gone, leaving her with a rosy blush on her cheeks and a Slytherin green lily in her hand.

~*~

By the time Penelope walked into the Ravenclaw Common Room, she was fairly sure that her face was calm, collected, normal...

And Cho Chang, who was just closing up her Ancient Runes textbook, glanced at the older girl, then at the odd, forest green, smoky-gray-speckled lily in her hand.

"Hmm... odd choice of flower for Percy to give you," the young Chinese witch remarked with a slight shrug, "Still, pretty."

Penelope turned away abruptly. So much for a semblance of calm, collected 'nothing's wrong'...


	6. The Plotting and the Pensive

Thalia: In case it has not become completely apparent to the precious few of you who might actually read this, yes, Marcus has an evil plan. Whether it works or not… well, I can't tell, can I? XD 

Ravyn: Now that classes have started, the time we have to plot ebilly has sadly decreased. So we'll just have to let Flint plot ebilly for us. XD

Disclaimer: Our current paycheques are not big enough to buy Quidditch Sex Slaves. We're still working on that, we swear!

_Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises. (Demosthenes)_

~*~ The Plotting and the Pensive ~*~

If Marcus Flint's mind was at all occupied with the events that had transpired at the tutoring session with Penelope Clearwater last night, it certainly did not show on his face. Sitting, almost lounging at the Slytherin table, he was one of the earliest arrivals in the Great Hall that morning at breakfast. Calmly sipping a cup of what looked like black coffee, he surveyed the sparse group of people at other tables. 

The Ravenclaws were, as was often the case, among the earliest ones there. Although quite a few were hunched over their books, sipping tea or coffee as they studied (overmuch), several were talking quietly amongst themselves. Roger Davies and Cho Chang were sitting next to each other, heads bent over some Quidditch-related tome or another, that looked too thick and complex to Flint to possibly be of any actual good.

It was interesting that Clearwater was not yet there.

A handful of Gryffindors (though none of the Dream team that Malfoy despised so much) were there as well... Flint saw Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor, sitting with fellow Chaser Alicia Spinnet, as well as that sandy-haired Irish kid in Potter's year. And the Weasley girl, who was demurely eating a cranberry muffin.

The door of the Great Hall opened, and several more students streamed in, in varying degrees of alertness/cafffeine deprivation. Cassius Warrington, confident, self-assured and smirking, strode untroubled towards the Slytherin table, briefly ruffling a small Oriental Ravenclaw's hair as he passed by that table, blithely ignoring her glares and attempts to swat him. A bit after him came Malfoy, falling in step behind that blonde Hufflepuff Hannah something or another. Flint watched as his Seeker sneered at the room's occupants at large, and the girl Weasley in particular, earning a most satisfactory venomous glare for his efforts. 

Flint wasn't watching and waiting for Penelope to come in. Of course not. He wasn't daft, and besides, she was...

Weasel's perfect trophy girlfriend. Goody-goody Penelope Clearwater. Interesting when riled up, and tried NEVER to be that way.

The door opened again, and in stepped the Ravenclaw Prefect of his musings, predictably next to Weasley, who was looking smug and smarmy. As per usual.

But even as she clung to Percy Weasley's arm and listened to whatever the deuce it was that Weasel prattled those who weren't sensible enough to throttle him to, even as she demurely led the Gryffindor towards the Ravenclaw table, she gave Flint a look, half-confused, half-nervous... from under partly lowered eyelashes... before turning away with the slightest hint of a flush on her cheeks.

She was EVERYTHING that he wasn't. And she was also not a pureblood. She was Weasel's GIRLFRIEND...

His most prized trophy.

Marcus' smirk was so wide that a nearby Warrington inquired in genial politeness if it had been hit by an engorgement charm.

~*~

Had Penny been feeling herself that morning, she would never have overslept. Her clothes from the night before would not have been left in a heap on the floor, and the homework on the table by her bed would never have lain there unfinished. 

As it was, she was late for breakfast, and was pulling on her gray jumper over the rest of her uniform nearly half an hour after the rest of her dorm mates had gone down to eat. If she'd been thinking properly, she'd have realized that Percy was no doubt waiting for her in the entrance hall. She'd have known that her friends were beginning to wonder what was keeping her.

Of course, if she'd been thinking properly, she probably wouldn't have been stubbornly trying to force her right shoe onto her left foot. 

But something was distracting Penny that morning, and while she wouldn't admit to herself what it was, she couldn't quite stop her gaze from wandering over to the vase on her bedside table. Last night it had been filled with the flowers Percy had given her on their last trip to Hogsmeade, now looking limp and lifeless. She'd removed the wilted flowers, replacing them with a single blossom.

A green lily. 

She tried to tell herself that it didn't mean anything, then berated herself for rationalizing flowers, all the while burying what she knew she should be rationalizing.

But honestly… it was just a flower. A harmless flower. And it was rather pretty, for such a… well, unique blossom. It was such a bright green, and with flecks of gray revealing the color of the original feather, it reminded her of the Slytherin's shining eyes…

Not that she'd noticed.

She dragged her gaze from the lily, shrugging into her robes. She was already late enough without spending her time thinking about a flower. Or the Slytherin who'd Transfigured it…

Percy had in fact been waiting for her in the entrance hall, but he smiled when he saw her and didn't seem upset. She kissed his cheek, and he offered an arm, which she took without thinking as they walked together into the great hall. She'd lost track of how many times they had done this exact same thing, and wondered why this time it felt different…

"Are you all right, darling? You seem a bit off this morning."

That was the polite way of asking why he'd had to wait so long for her. "Oh, I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just had a tutoring session that ran a bit late."

"You had a tutoring session last night? What?"

"Transfiguration."

"I didn't know there was another Transfiguration session. I thought I had the only one." He sounded nearly offended, either at the prospect that he, as Head Boy, had not been informed of this, or perhaps simply that it meant someone doubted his ability to tutor any Hogwarts student in Transfiguration.

_He certainly wouldn't do well with this one_, she thought grimly. "Don't worry about it, darling. You know, I had a question about our Arithmancy lesson the other day. Perhaps you could help me…"

This had the intended affect, and soon he was telling her exactly why he found Arithmancy so fascinating. And she wanted to listen, she really did, but she found herself distracted by a pair of grayish-green eyes across the hall.

She began a silent count of the hours until her next Transfiguration session.

  



	7. The Unthinkable

Ravyn: What do Penny and Ernie MacMillan have in common? They both learn some interesting lessons about Slytherins. Sneering, studying, and perhaps a little snoggage by the time this chapter is through. XD

Thalia: Bwhahahaha. Let the making out begin. Because this, after all, means an onset of the angst. *cackle*

Disclaimer: JKR's Slytherins get far less action.

_But love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit. (Shakespeare)_

~*~ The Unthinkable ~*~

Penelope Clearwater did not know what she was doing. A highly unusual situation.

She hadn't the foggiest idea (or at least, none that she'd admit to herself) why she was carefully brushing her hair and tying it back with, of all things, a green silk ribbon as she prepared to go to the next tutoring session.

She wasn't one of those girls overly concerned with appearance. 

A green ribbon, a splash of rosewater on her hands... nothing, really. It wasn't a big deal, of course.

Trying to ignore the sudden surge of what seemed to be vanity, up in her chest, she turned away from the approving mirror and glanced at the nightstand by her bed. A green lily. It was still there... perhaps a few more days before it would fade. The gray flecks in it were more prominent now, hints of its original state.

Closing her eyes almost in denying desperation, she turned abruptly towards her dresser, where the latest missive from Percy, with gentle words proclaiming his love and how, after he'd succeeded and gotten his dues for his efforts, after they were both out of school, he'd support her and give her all she needed.

He was a gentleman. A kind, good-hearted, upstanding young man. She was lucky to have his love. Really.

She loved Percy, of course she did.

Her mutinous eyes glanced at the lily for a split second once more, before she fled the room.

Well. She was a Prefect. She could NOT be late for tutoring!

Ernie MacMillan realized that he was in over his head.

He was aware that his position had been precarious ever since that evening, when he'd finally decided to give Pansy Parkinson a bouquet of flowers.

"You seem to be a bit lost, MacMillan," the Slytherin girl had commented without even lifting her blue eyes from the Potions text she had been studying while picking delicately at her dinner. "Let me help you. Tracey Davis is just down the table, next to Zabini there."

"Oh, no, I'm not looking for Tracey – "

"Oh." She had finally glanced up at him, and for a moment he'd been relieved to see comprehension dawning over her face – that is, until she'd amended, "Well, in that case, Draco's over there – "

"No, no, listen, Pansy, I was just hoping to talk to you…" He'd trailed off, suddenly very much aware of the half-cynical, half-bemused look on her face. "Is something wrong?" It had certainly not been going as he'd planned; he'd been flustered, and MacMillans were not used to being flustered. 

"You want to talk to me?" she'd asked, sounding almost cautious, as if expecting him to admit to it all being a joke at any moment. 

"Yes, is that a prob – ?"

"_You?_"

"Yes." It was at this point that he'd started to wonder if he shouldn't be offended by her reaction.

"Want to talk to _me?_"

"Yes, but since you're obviously – "

"So the flowers are for me, then?"

"I – er – well, yes." Things having suddenly gone his way surprised him so much that it had been a moment before he'd thought to thrust the bouquet at her. 

"Pansies. Cute."

Was she being sarcastic? He hadn't been quite sure; Hufflepuffs were rarely so subtle. Nevertheless, he'd made a mental note to just go with roses next time. "Yes, well, you know… you just remind me of a pansy, so – "

She'd quirked an eyebrow at him, and he'd wondered immediately what he'd done wrong that time. "I remind you of a homosexual bloke?"

"What? No! No, of course not…"

Her eyes had narrowed despite his poor attempts to take back the comment, and she'd asked, "Are you sure you're not looking for Draco?"

"No, I – er…" He'd been stuttering foolishly – another thing MacMillans were not used to – when Draco himself had appeared, Crabbe and Goyle predictably not far behind. He'd shot Ernie the briefest of disgusted looks before saying, "Really, Parkinson," with all the distaste as if he'd just discovered her snogging a house-elf. "A Hufflepuff? You know that's practically interspecies for us."

She'd risen from the table as the three stalked away from them, and at that moment Ernie had felt any bare last hope of the evening crumble about him, bitterly aware that he had nothing to show for it but embarrassment. Then Pansy had given him a faint smile, asking, "Care to continue this in the Charms classroom later?"

"I – of course!"

"Good."

And with those arrangements, Ernie was now rushing down the halls to Charms with much more enthusiasm than he'd ever felt for the class itself. The evening had already proved to him that Pansy was not exactly the type of girl he was used to, but he'd had time to regain some of his confidence, and he thought the situation held a bit more hope for him the second time around. 

He paused, hearing voices and glanced into the Transfiguration classroom, thinking that surely no one would be stupid enough to arrange a meeting in McGonagall's room…

The sight that met him gave him a bit of a shock – and quite a bit of amusement as well. Percy Weasley's girlfriend was standing quite close to someone who was definitely not Percy Weasley; he shifted, and Ernie had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from giving himself away when he recognized the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. 

This definitely did not seem like any late night study session.

Ernie snorted to himself as he turned away from the door. _And I thought _I_ was in over my head._

  
Marcus Flint was actually waiting in the Transfiguration classroom when Penelope arrived. This time, he seemed to have brought his books, and gave her what could almost be considered a smile (as close to a smile as a Slytherin was wont to give, anyway) as she entered.

"Good evening, Flint," she said, keeping her voice calm and soft, professional.

"Good evening," he returned, reaching an arm around her (deliberately) to shut the door behind her back. As her gaze was cast downward, she didn't see him smirk when he saw her blush as his arm brushed against her back.

Penelope almost ran towards McGonagall's desk, standing in front of it and opening up the copy of the 7th year Transfiguration book lying on top of it. "So, er... Flint... have you practiced the spells in Chapter nine?"

He stepped towards her, seemingly oblivious to her discomfiture, "Far be it from me to disappoint my lovely and obliging tutor," he drawled lazily, "And is it too much to ask, for you to call me by my given name? You're not one of the blokes or one of the teachers."

Her face was pink, and she still wouldn't look at him, but she nodded mutely, a forest green ribbon shimmering slightly in the subdued light of the classroom, against the backdrop of curly brown hair. Flint noticed that she smelled faintly of roses. "And what, if you please, will we be doing during our time together tonight?"

She quickly named a few spells, taking out her wand and demonstrating them one by one.

Marcus, who HAD indeed studied somewhat since the last tutoring session, mimicked her wandwork, and did an admirable job with the incantations. Pointing his wand at the fork on the desk, he managed to transfigure it into a dagger, a bright blue-green aquamarine winking on the hilt.

"Nice," Penelope commented, lifting the dagger and inspecting it. "Strange... except the stone, it resembles the blade of Brunhilde..."

"Except Brunhilde's could slice through the most impervious of armour," Marcus continued silkily, "And it had a sapphire."

Penelope looked at him in surprise. "You... know that story?"

He nodded easily, reaching over and taking the dagger from her hands (their fingers brushing in the process). "Brunhilde the warrior queen, powerful, brilliant, beautiful... she defended her people... and saved the life of the man she loved... with her magic dagger. Which was infused with powerful Charms that gave the wielder extraordinary strength... and was so sharp that it could pierce to the heart of any man, no matter how hardened a shield or guard he wore to protect himself."

She was now looking at him almost in admiration, her eyes lighting up. "You like History?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug, "I AM capable of doing things other than playing Quidditch and insulting pompous Gryffindorks."

She didn't even hear that last remark, her lips now curved upwards in a smile. "I thought that I was the only one in this school who liked History. Even Hermione, smart girl though she is, isn't too fond of it..."

"Granger is overrated," Marcus gave a shrug. "All sorts of people seem to make her out as the only witch with an iota of intelligence in this school, just because she's a bit above the rest of her house, and because she associates with Potter."

Penelope gave him a slightly reproachful look, and he changed the subject, almost as if obliging her for some obscure purpose of his own. "But yes... I like History. Don't tell anyone," he added mockingly at the end.

She rolled her eyes slightly, though her face was still lit up with pleasant surprise. "What period and country are you the most interested in? I happen to enjoy learning about Egyptian magic..."

"That's somewhat interesting, but Celtic magic has some fascinating points too..."

And as they discussed spells and sagas of witches and wizards of long ago, Transfiguration completely forgotten, Penelope relaxed, actually perching herself on the edge of McGonagall's desk, her slender hands gesticulating as they talked. Her inner Ravenclaw was exulting in a rare opportunity to share and exchange knowledge in an area unappreciated by practically everyone. Percy didn't like History too much...

"...It's fascinating the origin of mind-control spells in Ancient China..." Penelope was cut off mid-sentence by the sound of a distant clock striking ten. Her eyes widened when she'd realized... time was up! It had FLOWN... and she'd barely even noticed!

It was slowly and reluctantly that she got down from the desk to walk towards the door, her face still slightly flushed, her eyes wide as they gazed at the young man in front of her. She whispered, almost to herself, "If only you could be like this all the time... around everyone..."

Marcus was probably not meant to hear that statement, but he did anyway, and an unexpected surge of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy rose within his chest. He narrowed his eyes slightly, his face now twisted into a slight sneer. "Suggesting that I be civil to your little boyfriend?"

She paled, before looking at him with almost-bewildered, velvety dark eyes. Dear Merlin... Percy... "I wasn't thinking of Percy, but... you... oh goodness... I'd almost forgotten... you're Percy's worst enemy..." she blurted out, softly, almost (or so he thought) wistfully.

I'd almost forgotten... at THOSE words, he advanced on her, the feeling of unexplained jealousy suddenly overwhelmed by an equally unexpected feeling of... triumph. She was still gazing at him with huge eyes, which grew wider as he inched closer to her. But the door was still closed, and she was leaning against it, seeming to have forgotten how to reach her hand towards the doorknob. He was standing right in front of her in an instant, close enough so that their robes brushed, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face...

And then he had grabbed her shoulders, forcefully but not as roughly as she would have expected (NOT that she was expecting THIS, by any means!), his eyes smouldering as they raked over her face, her soft, flushed cheeks, her wide eyes, the soft, parted lips...

Before she could move, he'd leaned in, pressing his lips against her own, hot and deep and fiery and demanding... she squirmed, a tiny shriek in surprise escaping from her lips, and there was a moment of struggling... before she felt her knees begin to buckle.

Heavens... she'd NEVER been kissed like this! His hands moved from her shoulders, one drifting to her waist to pull her insistently against him while the other reached up to cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair. His lips seared hers, the contact rough, almost painful, his mouth thoroughly plundering hers, as if trying to learn everything... the contour of her lips, the way she tasted...

The almost-savagery of the kiss decreased a few moments later, though he didn't pull away. It was slightly more gentle now, his lips coaxing hers open, the hand cupping her head now stroking through her curls. She involuntarily sighed against his mouth, her hands reaching up to brush against the sides of his face before lightly caressing the wings of his hair.

He groaned slightly, and when they were both breathless, his lips shifting towards her jaw for a brief moment, before he kissed her mouth again, deep and passionate. Penelope, even as she deliriously returned the kiss, leaned against the door for support. Merlin, Percy never kissed like this... he was always gentle, mild... almost formal...

Oh dear God... PERCY!!!

She suddenly stiffened, and he instinctively pulled away an inch, and saw dawning comprehension and terror in her face. She lurched against the door for a moment, her hands finally finding the doorknob and almost wrenching it open. Before he could say anything, she was running, her face in her hands, her shoulder shaking slightly with sobs.

And he stood at the door of McGonagall's classroom, his own eyes wide as he watched her flee down the hallway, a green silk ribbon hanging limply in his hands and the smell of roses filling his senses.


	8. Glory and Guilt

Thalia: ROGGIENESS ENSUES!!!!! But before that, Slytherin snark at its finest, and a mention of drag-queen!Derrick *cackle*. This is a chapter with both snark AND angst. What more could you want?!

Ravyn: Honestly, though... what's a story without at least one Slytherin in drag? Not to mention an angsty Ravenclaw and one pissed off Gryffindor. If that's not enough for you people... well, you'll just have to wait until homework hasn't consumed my every free moment.

Disclaimer: We'll get to the owning of the Quidditch hotties after we've finished shagging them all.

_Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it. (Jane Wagner)_

~*~ Glory and Guilt ~*~

All right, so perhaps it hadn't been quite the reaction he'd been expecting. Still, all in all, Flint thought to himself, that that had gone rather well.

Sure, she'd torn away, looked up at him in stark terror, and run away wracked with sobs. But before that…

He'd never been particularly aware of other people's feelings. He'd never really had to. As a Slytherin, it was either glaringly obvious what a housemate was feeling, or even more glaringly obvious that he wasn't meant to know. But he was astute enough to know that what she'd been feeling when she'd kissed him, when her lips had parted willingly under his, when she'd run her hands through his hair and pulled him closer…

… That had not been fear she'd been feeling.

He wandered through the halls in the general direction of the dungeons, thinking vaguely that, though he would not admit it, he really didn't know how to proceed. Clearwater… _Penny_, he thought deliberately… would no doubt go running back to Weasley, just as she had when he'd given her that flower. 

That damn flower. He'd rarely been able to perform a spell like that before. He'd rarely wanted to succeed so badly…

Not that this train of thought was going to get him anywhere.

Bloody Weasley. It was all his fault, in the end. If he hadn't been dating her, if she hadn't seen whatever she had seen in the Gryffindork, if he hadn't been so damn insufferable in the first place…

_Weasley must have a death wish_, Flint decided when he saw the familiar red hair and gitty expression coming around the corner ahead of him. He certainly had a knack for showing up where he was least wanted. 

"Really, Flint," the contemptuously arrogant tone reached him. "After – what's it been, ten years? Even you should know after being here _that_ long that being out after hours means a detention."

Flint bristled almost visibly. "I really don't have time for this, Weasley." He paused, his expression going suddenly smug. "Never would have guessed that Clearwater could take so much out of a bloke."

"Penelope? Flint, I doubt very much that Penelope would waste her time on the likes of you," Percy said, sneering at him as if he was something unpleasant that the Head Boy had nearly stepped in during his rounds.

"Are you so sure?" 

The smug confidence in Flint's voice made Percy flinch more than any insult could have. The Slytherin smirked, reaching absently into his pocket to finger the green silk ribbon. "What kind of perfume does your girlfriend wear, Weasel?"

"I – wha, why?" Seeing Weasley so flustered could well have been the most amusing part of Flint's evening.

Well, maybe the second most amusing part.

"No reason," he replied, now smirking even more. "It's just… she smells so good."

Flint and Malfoy had had a long-standing bet whether or not a Weasley could turn as red as that garish hair. Percy had just settled that bet.

He glared furiously at Flint, but for once, the pompously verbose Head Boy seemed to have nothing to say. He stalked off down the hall without another word, his mind more on the Ravenclaw common room than finishing his rounds. Flint continued on his way as well, but for once it was not in anger but the satiated feeling of having undoubtedly won that argument. 

McGonagall must have assigned ten-page essays to every year, because there was relatively little commotion in the Slytherin common room when he returned. "Malfoy," he said unceremoniously as he passed a group of third years, "you owe me a Galleon." 

"Was it the Gryffindor Quidditch team's showers or Snape's underpants?"

"Neither. Weasley's hair."

"Bloody… that really shouldn't have been worth a Galleon."

"You're only saying that because you lost the bet. Pay up."

Pansy stared at Draco with something close to disgust as he dug through his robes in search of a gold coin. It wasn't until he'd paid Flint and the older Slytherin had walked away when she finally managed to say, "Snape's underpants?"

"Just a little bet we've got going," Draco said dismissively.

"And what exactly does this bet - ? You know what? Never mind. I think I'll be better off never knowing the answer to that question."

Flint, meanwhile, had every intention of going to his dorm where he planned to do as little of his homework as possible when he was stopped by an abrupt, "And what exactly have you been doing?"

He turned to look at the speaker; Susannah met his eyes with a dubious gaze. "Or more accurately," she amended after a quick glance at his slightly disheveled appearance – not to mention his foolish grin – "WHO have you been doing?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," he lied blatantly, turning his grin on a nearby Warrington, who returned it mischievously. 

"Well, then," she replied, going back to her studies, "I wasn't aware that our Quidditch team had taken up the trend of wearing lipstick and wearing… is that tea roses I smell?"

"Hey!" Malfoy replied indignantly from the couch nearby. "Just because Flint does it doesn't mean you can accuse the WHOLE TEAM of it!"

"Oh, I seem to recall a particular incident involving Derrick, a woman's knickers, and quite a bit of make-up," Blaise Zabini pitched in.

"For the love of Merlin, it was just the ONE time!" Derrick objected loudly.

"Yeah, but – no, wait a second," Malfoy said. "I just got the butterbeer out of my other robes from last time we did this. I'm not getting into this ag – BLOODY HELL, WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?"

"There's the better part of a pack where that came from, Malfoy, so I suggest you quit while you're ahead."

Flint snickered with the rest of them, but inwardly he couldn't help thinking that not even seeing Malfoy covered with butterbeer for the second time that month was the best part of that evening. 

~*~

Dawn found Penelope Clearwater, pale as a wraith, slumped on one of the numerous blue velvet couches in the Ravenclaw Common Room.

The girl's eyes were filled with pain and fear and guilt…

And an odd sort of… wistfulness.

Still clad in last night's robes, now slightly rumpled, and every now and then, as she stared into the always-burning fire in the grate, her shoulders would shake, though with cold or something else, it wasn't clear.

That was how Roger Davies, walking down the staircase from his dormitory, evidently having had a somewhat sleepless night himself, found his Charms class partner. The Ravenclaw captain frowned slightly, worry evident in his blue eyes, and approached Penelope, reaching out one hand to shake her shoulder slightly.

"Penny, you awake?" Roger asked cautiously, peering down into the girl's stricken face.

Penny's eyes focused upon the concerned face of her friend, and she gave what could only be termed as a pathetic smile. "I'm… awake…" she started, unsure of what to say besides that. Sure, Roger Davies wasn't Oliver Wood or… or Percy. But still, how could she tell him… tell ANYONE… what had happened last night?!

Roger looked at her dubiously, "Are you all right? Do you need to go to the Infirmary or something? Penny, you look rather ill."

"No, I don't need to go to the Infirmary," Penny said hurriedly. Going there would… Percy would certainly know and… oh GOD… she…

"Look, Penny," Roger's voice was quiet, "Perhaps you should see someone… I'm really quite worried."

"No, I don't want to see anyone," Penny whispered, "But… Roger?"

"Yes?"

"Please… please tell Professor Flitwick that… I don't think I can go to classes today," the girl whispered miserably, not meeting her friend's too-perceptive eyes.

Roger gave Penelope a long look, silently wondering at the odd hint of… lovelorn melancholy that he'd seen shining in her eyes, before giving a light sigh and nodding. "I'll tell him that," he promised, "You should go to bed and take it easy." Gently, he pulled her to her feet and gave her a slight push towards the direction of the dormitories. "Wouldn't want Percy to worry too much, would we?"

He could have sworn that her back stiffened at the mention of Percy's name.


	9. Win

Ravyn: Warrington in a towel. Need I say more?

Thalia: I'll add one word to that: NERDSLUTS!

Disclaimer: We do not actually own the Slytherin Quidditch team, no matter how shaggable. In fact, one could argue that it is the Slytherin Quidditch team that owns us.

_"You call it madness, but I call it love." (Don Byas)_

~*~ Win ~*~

There was a sea of crimson as the Gryffindor supporters swept the pitch, cheering and congratulating and struggling to pull the winning Quidditch team on to their shoulders. Percy refrained from joining them, although he shot a grin at Oliver when the triumphant captain waved up at the Head Boy. Happy as he was for his dorm mate, Percy had a certain Ravenclaw to see about a certain fifteen Galleons… 

The Ravenclaws were already leaving the stands, a general feeling of neutrality about the Gryffindor victory. With their own team out of the game, the outcome of the Quidditch final had been a matter of indifference to most of them. Penny, of course, would be waiting for him, and would act supremely disappointed that she had lost their bet, because that was the game of house rivalry that they played, that they'd always played. And he looked forward to it; when exams came and his duties as Head Boy became hectic, he enjoyed the stability he found in her, in the fact that they always met in the entrance hall before breakfast and their Quidditch bets. 

However, at the moment his pillar of stability was nowhere to be seen. 

"'Lo, Percy," Simon Capper, the seventh year Ravenclaw prefect, greeted him from the blue and bronze crowd. 

"Simon," he replied with a polite nod. "Have you seen Penelope?" 

"Yeah, she was just over – " He turned, pointed, and stopped when he realized the girl had disappeared. "Oh. Well, I'm not sure where she's got to." 

Even while he thanked the Ravenclaw, Percy caught sight of a flash of black robes and dark curly hair down on the pitch. But the girl, whoever she was, had been headed into the Slytherin locker rooms, and Penny, his girlfriend, his support… 

… Penny would never do that. 

~*~ 

She felt strangely out of place in the Slytherin locker rooms. 

Even stranger was that it wasn't quite because she was a Ravenclaw in the Slytherin locker room, or even because she was a girl in the boys' locker room. 

No, Penny felt odd simply because… this wasn't her. She didn't sneak into locker rooms. She didn't have secret conversations with people she probably ought not to be seeing at all. And she didn't leave Percy in the stands asking her housemates where she was. 

She shoved the uncomfortable image of Percy and Simon talking out of her head, continuing into the locker room with only a vague idea of what to do next. She only knew that she wanted to see Marcus; she didn't quite know where to find him. 

Approaching voices made her breath catch in her throat, and she ducked behind an open door. As the Slytherin players filed out, she could only tell herself over and over that she shouldn't be there. 

Especially when Warrington stalked out in a towel. 

"WHAT WAS THAT?" Kevin Bole raged, gesturing violently towards the door where the dejected team had filed in moments before. 

"That was the result of strain, lack of sleep, pressure…" Montague rationalized. 

"What exactly was Malfoy Seeking? Someone should mention to him that, whatever sort of red-headed Gryffindors he fancies when he's on the ground, during a match he's supposed to be after the Snitch…" 

"Malfoy's young. He's still got to learn that the game isn't about being better than Harry Potter." 

"Well, that's all well and good for Malfoy. He still has four years left to win the Cup!" 

"All right, all right," Warrington said, gesturing vehemently, and Penny's mantra went from 'I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be here,' to 'Please let the towel stay on, please let the towel stay on…' "We're losing sight of the important thing here: the Gryffindors are all total, total – the word 'gits' really doesn't do them justice here, but you know what I mean – and later tonight, when we're all good and drunk, I think we should drop by the tower and let them know exactly how much we appreciate them." 

Amid the strong agreement that met this proposal – which Penny briefly considered putting a stop to later before deciding she had more important things to worry about – she took the opportunity to slip through the door. She wasn't quite sure what any of them would do if they actually saw her, but there was really only one Slytherin she wanted to talk to at that moment… 

At first she thought perhaps he'd slipped out before she'd had a chance to catch him – that is, until she noticed a lone figure sitting on a corner bench, a Slytherin green towel draped over his head. 

She hesitated for only a second before venturing, "Marcus?" 

He started visibly, yanking the towel off of his head, but he still did not look up at her. She stood, silent, watching the dejected figure, until he spoke at last. 

"If you want to talk, this really isn't a good time." 

"I don't want to talk," she said simply. 

"What do you want, then?" 

She was next to him in an instant, without really being aware of how she got there. The fact that there was now less space between them was enough for her. She didn't need to think any more about it. 

In fact, she had the distinct suspicion that thinking had only gotten her into more trouble lately. 

So, without thinking, she once again rewrote the List of Things She Just Didn't Do. She slipped a hand behind his head and kissed him. 

He was surprised at first, but after a moment, he remembered the sweet smell of her, the taste of her lips, and he responded with every bit as much enthusiasm. Her lips parted easily for him, and when he pressed her back on the bench, she found she couldn't breath under the full weight of him. She was drowning in him… 

… and she didn't care. 

She didn't care that the rest of the team might hear when she couldn't quite hold in a breathless cry. She didn't care that Percy was still looking for her, or that she might be late to dinner. She was oblivious to everything but his kiss, his hands, the feel of him so close to her. Her only care was that he wasn't close enough… 

And when the door opened an instant later, she didn't even notice Vittorio Derrick peak in, grin broadly, and shut the door quietly once more.

Bole and Bletchley were quite immersed in some very outlandish plans involving Gryffindors, pumpkin juice and laxative potions, with Warrington and Montague listening in amusement, when Vittorio Derrick, an oddly wide smirk (considering the recent Quidditch loss) on his face, walked back to join them. Clearing his throat, the Beater dropped his bomb.

"Y'know, I don't think that revenge on the Gryffs will be necessary," he started, and everyone turned to stare at the heretic. "Our esteemed captain has just... ah... scored."

A motley assortment of "what the devil do you mean?", "what did he score?", and "how the hell can this be more important than smiting the Gryffs?" greeted the Beater, and after the inquiries died down, Vittorio put up a large hand.

"Although... ah... I don't recommend any of you going over there," he jerked his finger in the direction of the first aid area of the locker room, separated from the showers by a closed door. "Unless you're so interested in seeing Flint remove Penelope Clearwater's brassiere with his teeth that you don't care that he'd disembowel you with a Potions ladle when he sees you."

In the pandemonium that resulted from this statement and the shell-shocked shouts from the others, Warrington, eyes wide, turned to Derrick. "They're SHAGGING?!"

"Well, they weren't, YET, when I saw them, but they were most definitely horizontal," Derrick answered with a slight headshake. "Warrington...W-- Cassius, why the hell are you smirking like you'd just done something particularly noble and praiseworthy, which... is statistically 90% improbable?"

But Warrington didn't hear this, and as he blithely transfigured his towel into a set of robes, and made his way towards the castle, he reflected that Weasley must be unaware of it all. But there should be some very interesting Prefect Meetings in the near future. Perhaps he should warn Susannah.

~*~

Percy Weasley was slightly edgy during Prefect rounds that night. One Prefect from each House, by rule, had to patrol every night. Penelope hadn't shown up, and a rather bewildered Zachary Turpin told the Head Boy that he'd not seen her, though it could of course be the case that she was studying somewhere...

Susannah Caligo had given Percy a strange sort of look, half mockery and half pity, before she'd started down her patrol corridor in silence. And Percy quietly walked down the Muggle Studies hallway with his mind full of troubling thoughts. Something was going on... that much was clear... but he really hadn't any idea WHAT.

Two loitering students and three hours later, Percy wended his way back to the Great Hall, where the rounds had started. Neither Zach Turpin nor Jeanna Dorny were back yet, but Susannah was arriving from the opposite direction, glancing at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. Percy wondered what the girl had meant when she'd looked at him so oddly earlier.

Susannah caught sight of the Head Boy, standing by a column, and shook her regal head. "Feel good over your House's win, Weasley?" she called out, not particularly venomous though slightly sharp.

"Why shouldn't I?" Percy responded immediately, thrusting out his chin. "Our team did a very good job, I think."

"So they did," Susannah mused, before giving him a slight smirk. "But perhaps SOME others... might appreciate OURS, more. At least from what I've learnt about her. Good night, Weasley." With that enigmatic and ominous pronouncement, the 7th year Slytherin turned on her heel and made her way towards the dungeons, fairly sure that her housemates would be half-pissed by the time she arrived, and thanking heaven for the copious amounts of Hangover Potion that had been stowed away beforehand.

She reflected, as she neared the Slytherin entrance, that had he not been so uptight with her housemates, she'd almost feel sorry for him.

~*~

Percy's face was still fixed in a troubled frown as he uttered the password to the Fat Lady and stepped into the Gryffindor Common Room. What in the world did Susannah Caligo mean? Who, indeed, in their right minds... would prefer those Slytherin tactics to the far more honorable ones of the Gryffindors? And who was 'she'? He sighed deeply to himself, walking further into the Common Room, and was almost startled out of his skin when a soft voice addressed him.

"Is something the matter?" A young girl with masses of brown hair, looking over the top of a very thick tome. "You look rather upset, Percy."

It was Hermione Granger, Ron's intelligent friend. And she was giving him an odd look as well, though not Caligo's look of mocking pity, but one of confusion.

He forced himself to put on a semblance of a smile, or at least a bland _expression. "Oh, just... things on my mind that's all. What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Reading up on Ancient Runes," Hermione replied, tapping the cover of the book she held in her lap before peering at him again. "Are you sure you're all right, though? You look very troubled over something. You should be happy... we won the Quidditch Cup."

Percy sighed again. "Yes, we did. Tell Harry congratulations."

"I will, if you'll tell me what's the matter, hmm?" Hermione, almost bossily, patted the space on the couch next to her, and gave him an expectant look. "Who knows, maybe I can help."

He slowly made his way over to where the girl was sitting, and sunk down into the couch cushions next to her. "I'm... not sure what's going on," he ventured. "So I can't tell you much. Thanks for the offer, though."

"You're welcome," she said dismissively, "But at least... try."

"Well, you see... it's like this..." Percy bit his lip, unsure of what to say to this young student, and certainly not knowing why he was confiding in her. But within moments, the story of what he might have perhaps seen, the dark-haired girl sneaking into the Slytherin locker room, Penelope's recent lack of availability, Flint's barb from a while back, and Susannah's jibe after patrol... "I really don't know what's going on," he concluded in a whisper, "And... frankly, I don't even know if I want to know."

Hermione nodded, her eyes wide. Perfect Percy, his head down and his hair falling into his eyes, sighing and looking down at his hands... "Well," she said with more confidence and conviction than she really felt, "You should talk to her, of course. It's only logical that if she were to dislike continuing a relationship with you, she would tell you."

Percy was half surprised at the young girl decisively telling him what to do, and the fact that he had nothing, really, to do with her, and yet had confided the whole uncertain tale...

Hermione gave a sigh, echoing his mood, and set her book down. "We should sleep," she proclaimed, "Just... worry about it tomorrow, Percy. After you've rested."

He gave her a nod in thanks, still somewhat apprehensive, and before he snuffed his candle, he wrote a slightly choppy narrative to Penelope.

"Dear Penny,

When will you be around and free to talk? I need to talk.

~Percy"

It... had to be nothing, he said to himself in a small voice before he went to sleep. Nothing was wrong, really...

And yet he couldn't wait to see Penelope and find out the truth somehow.


	10. The Moment of Truth

Thalia: We put in Warrington snark so that you'll not be TOO wibbly after the end of this chapter. Also because we like the idea of chocolate covered/naked/towel Warrington. Yes.

Ravyn: Yes, the less clothing on the Swarthy Git, the better. XD And also, wibbling and angst abound. *huggles poor, abused characters*

Disclaimer: Do not be silly.

_Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. (Jane Austen)_

~*~

"… For the traditional seventh year party that the teachers don't know about, we've gotten the staff's permission to spend the evening in Hogsmeade. June eleventh, after all N.E.W.T.S have been completed. They've also extended curfew for two hours that night. Also, the other, equally traditional seventh year party that the teachers actually don't know about will be in the Slytherin dungeons at two hours past curfew."

This won several laughs around the table, but Warrington only grinned smugly as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his feet on the table before him. "And at this party, I fully intend to take off all my clothes, cover myself in chocolate, and willingly accept the help of any of our lovely seventh year ladies to clean me off." 

"You're not a seventh year, Warrington." Susannah didn't even look up from her notes when she cast the quick spell that none too gently knocked Warrington's feet off the meeting table. "Thank Merlin."

Penny couldn't help smiling to herself at the Slytherins' antics, though she felt almost as if she didn't belong at this meeting. Percy's eyes sought hers periodically, but she did not meet his questioning gaze. She just…

She just couldn't.

She couldn't pretend that there was nothing between her and Marcus. She couldn't keep measuring one of them against the other, even if it was simply in innocent awe at how different two kisses could be. She couldn't keep hurting Percy, but she couldn't just smile sweetly at him and pretend that her world had not been shifted from its axis, because that simply wasn't true. 

And most of all, she couldn't stop caring about either of them.

"Any other business?" Susannah asked, glancing first around the table, and then at the Head Boy who sat next to her. Percy shook his head, and Penny felt a dizzying heat rise in her. The meeting was about to adjourn, and she knew that Percy was going to stay behind, call her name as she approached the door, touch her arm the way he always did when he was concerned…

"Very well, then," Percy was saying, "Diggory, Montague, Capper, you three have rounds tonight. Good evening, everyone."

She rose without really knowing it, swept in the crowd towards the door, but not seeing, not hearing, until…

"Penelope?"

She turned back. "Yes, Percy?"

"Wait a moment, would you?" And she knew it wasn't really a request, so when he turned back to finish his Head Boy business, she stepped just outside the door, waiting, letting the moment play out before her.

"Fascinating wall, Clearwater?" She started, glanced up to see Warrington smirking down on her. "Or have you stumbled upon a potion that lets you see through walls?"

"No, just… tired." Weary. Heavy with concern and confusion.

"That's a shame. A potion like that could make you quite a few Galleons outside the sixth floor girls' lavatory."

"Sixth floor - ?" Penny shook her head, ignoring for the moment that this was in fact the lavatory the Ravenclaw girls used and thinking that she had enough problems without taking Warrington's teasing seriously…

… That is, of course, assuming he was teasing.

"Never mind that," and she paused, weighing the question in her mind. "Cassius, is he - ?"

Warrington leaned against the wall before her, arms crossed, and for a moment he looked uncharacteristically sober. When she could not continue, he said, "I can only assume you were going to ask me about Flint."

She nodded mutely.

"Then all I can really tell you is… perhaps you should ask him yourself."

She frowned, looked up at him, and he only nodded to her right, smirking faintly. She turned to find Marcus there, a ways down the hall, watching her, and she saw her own confusion mirrored in his eyes.

"Penny, I – " But this was not Marcus, it was Percy, coming out of the Prefect's meeting room. And when he stopped, she knew he'd seen Marcus, too.

Penny was suddenly very aware of three pairs of eyes on her, singeing her, waiting for… what? Her decision? With that thought, she sorely wished she knew a spell that would just make her disappear.

"Penny, can we talk, please?"

"I –  I can't." She held Flint's dark eyes for the eternity of an instant before she brought herself to look at Percy. In the corner of her vision, she saw Flint lower his head. "I have something I need to take care of."

She tried to tell herself that it was the right thing to do, that it was only fair. The truth might sting for the moment, but feeding him lies would only pain him more in the end.

But that didn't make the stony look on Percy's face any easier to bear as she brushed his arm the way he always did to her, then turned away to leave with Marcus.

~*~

It was quiet, so still that she could almost imagine that time had stopped and she would not have to face anything but the soft starlight that reflected in his dark eyes. She carefully slipped her hand into his, tangling his fingers in her own.

"Marcus – "

"Don't," he said, his voice a husky whisper, but before she could question him, he went on: "Don't do this to yourself, Penny. You… you should be with someone like him, someone who's as intelligent as you are, who can give you everything you deserve, everything you want – "

"I want you."

He seemed almost surprised, as if he'd expected her to see his reasoning and go back to Percy right then and there. But when she reached up, tried to kiss him, his hands came up to encircle her upper arms, holding her back. "Listen," he said, "don't think I haven't seen it. I know what this is doing to you. I saw, even inside just now. I'm telling you that you don't have to make this decision. I'm making it for you. Two weeks from now I'll be in Auror's training, and you'll be with him – where you belong."

He kissed her then, more gently than he'd ever been with her, and she knew he thought he was saying goodbye. 

But… that couldn't be.

Could it?

"Marcus, you can't – "

"Don't," he said again. "It's – it's better this way. After all, I'm just a big, bad Slytherin, and you're Miss Perfect Prefect." He reached out carefully to tuck a stray curl behind her ears, and added quietly, so quiet she wasn't sure she was meant to hear, "You'll always be perfect to me."

Her eyes fell closed, and she breathed deeply to keep herself from crying right there. He couldn't mean any of this. He hated Percy. He would never just give her up. He couldn't mean it…

But when she opened her eyes, he'd turned away from her, leaving a pure white lily pressed in her palm. She couldn't find the words to say, wasn't even sure what she was thinking, so she only watched as his shadowed figure disappeared into the castle.

She gazed down at the lily in her hand, so clean and white, so… perfect, and thought idly to herself that being perfect like everyone expected wasn't as nice as it might seem. She took out her wand, touched it to the pale petals, and when she'd finished, the flower in her hand was not white but green, spotted with flecks of gray.

It looked better that way.

~*~

When she returned to the castle, Percy was standing close to the entrance, but facing away from her.

"Percy…" she uttered his name, almost beseechingly.

He didn't turn around, but the sound of a quiet sigh reached her ears. "_Flint_, Penny?" It wasn't even harshly spoken. Just quiet, somewhat bitter. If he had ranted and yelled and glared at her, she would have felt better. But Percy was always the perfect gentleman, even when he'd lost.

She bit her lip. "Percy… it wasn't _supposed_ to happen this way," she muttered miserably, "I didn't… mean to…" What was there to say, really?

"How?" Percy asked, in a voice that clearly indicated that he didn't want to know, "Did he seduce you? To get at ME? Gods… did he… what did he DO to you?"

"Nothing!" Penny said sharply, before walking up to him, her voice calmly desperate, willing him to understand, "I didn't MEAN for things to have played out the way they did, Percy. Honest… I had taken his tutoring session because I knew how much he hated you, and I didn't want him to give you trouble…"

"And then he set his sights on you," Percy muttered, the eyes behind his glasses tired, dark with sorrow. His lips curved into a bitter sort of smile. "Well. He must be happy. He WON. He has YOU."

Her heart broke at that, and she couldn't look him in the eye. Hands clasped tightly so he couldn't see them shaking, she whispered, almost too softly to hear, "No... he told me to come back to you, because I deserved better than him."

Percy, ever observant of details, noticed her hands shaking, clutching an oddly coloured lily as if her life depended on it. The quiet note of anguish in her voice was unmistakable, as well as the honesty of her words. As painful as his situation was, hers was no better, he realized. Or, for that matter, Flint's situation. Feeling an odd sense of compassion, he finally stepped forward towards her, stopping in front of her and putting his arms gently around her in a hug that bespoke nothing beyond platonic friendship. "I wish you good luck then, Penny. Really… I hope that you'll be happy. If he can make you happy." The idea was a bit too much for him to swallow, but she leaned her head against his shoulder, in silent gratitude. He felt her tremble slightly. 

After a while, she finally spoke again, her voice holding just a brief hint of tears. "Percy," she implored, "I DO love you, just…"

"I understand," he said gravely, patting her back in a manner that was... almost brotherly, as opposed to romantic, "It's all right. I just want you to be happy."

"Thanks," she managed, giving him a watery sort of smile, "You too. I want YOU to be happy."

"Perhaps," he gave her a wry smile. "But… I should get going." Giving her shoulder a brief pat, he looked deeply into her eyes for a long moment. "Take care, Penny."

And here, the words meant more than the usual casual farewell.


	11. A Very Happy Christmas

Ravyn: Well, here it is, the final chapter of our Marcus/Penny adventure. *sniff* Hope you enjoyed it. Meanwhile, what's a fairytale without its happy ending?

Thalia: Yes, this is the end *squee*. It was FUN while it lasted… I would like to state the obvious and say that I love Warrington. That is all. 

Disclaimer: If we try to pry Flint off Penny so he could sign the ownership papers, he might kill us right around now.

_All's well that ends well._

~*~

The Yule Ball was a convergence of Slytherin mischief, and while by right he was a part of it, he felt as though he was watching them through a pane of one of the elaborately decorated windows. Draco and Pansy sat smirking together, each dropping criticism of those around them to the amusement of the other. Draco occasionally glanced over his shoulder, though he couldn't imagine what the younger boy was looking at; his gaze seemed to be directed across the room at – Longbottom? No, that couldn't be right. But the only other person he could see was the little Weasley girl, and that seemed nearly as absurd. Montague was dancing with a tall Slytherin girl, and Derrick and Zabini sat at a table coddling glasses that he suspected contained more than just punch. Blaise was saying something about lipstick, and Derrick's fierce glare at the comment only served to make the younger Slytherin laugh. Bletchley was serving punch to a blonde that he seemed to recall being a Hufflepuff, but then again Pansy had been sniping at a Hufflepuff early, so perhaps he'd just returned in the middle of a disturbing trend among his former housemates. 

And Warrington, the smug git, was nowhere to be found. 

Flint fully blamed him for this. He could just as easily have been out with his mates, not sitting there revisiting his school years, which, frankly, had not been that brilliant to begin with. 

Except of course for a few shining moments… 

Warrington approached him a few minutes later, but the grin he wore quickly disappeared when he saw Flint's face. Flint took the opportunity to get in the first word. 

"You know, I don't know why you asked me here if you're not even going to bother to dance with me." 

Warrington blinked, caught off guard for a mere instant before he recovered. "Sorry, darling, allow me." He hauled Flint up by the arm, smirking to himself when Flint fought to free his arm from his own as he led the elder Slytherin across the dance floor. "I want you to meet my date for the evening. Actually, you'll probably remember her, if I'm not mistaken…" 

He broke off, knowing full well that Flint was no longer listening. He'd stopped his friend near a group of Ravenclaws and stood smirking until Flint finally saw what it was that so amused him. Robes of silver accenting a slight frame, and a cascade of dark curls… 

He felt his breath catch in his throat. 

"Penny?" 

~*~ 

Penelope couldn't help but be suspicious when Cassius had asked her to the Yule Ball. Her initial thoughts as he'd sauntered over to her across the Great Hall, holding a bouquet and grinning broadly at her, had been that she was in the middle of some game being played between the Slytherin and her own housemate, Su Li; all the bantering between the two lately would completely justify this conclusion. However, she decided to play along – at least long enough to find out what he was playing at. 

"Flowers, Cassius? I wouldn't have guessed." 

"Yes, well, mum managed to beat the trappings of a gentlemen into me. I normally avoid that sort of treacly behaviour, of course, but I suppose this is the Yule Ball, and there are concessions to be made…" She had felt herself blushing as he'd pressed the flowers into her hands, and he'd smirked a little but didn't mention it, saying instead, "So, with the understanding that this little venture into gentlemanly behaviour will last long enough to assure there will be no inappropriate touching and as little innuendo as Slytherinly possible, what do you say? Will you go to the ball with me?" 

She'd smiled, saying, "Well, with an invitation like that, how could I refuse?" 

"Can't imagine that you could." 

But even while he'd grinned at her, she'd noticed something odd about the bouquet; nestled among a smattering of white petals was a lily. 

A green lily. 

She'd glanced up at him quickly, questioningly, trying to hide the desperate hope she'd known flashed in her eyes. He'd grinned again, knowing full well what she wanted to ask but not letting her. "I'll meet you outside your common room at eight." And then he'd gone. 

She'd suspected then… or perhaps just dreamed. Of course she'd thought of Marcus over the summer. How could she not? He'd changed her life… changed her… 

But in all her childish dreams, she'd never quite imagined what a physical blow hearing him speak her name again would be. 

She turned slowly, afraid of what she might see, afraid she might be mistaken and that her silly hopes had gotten the best of her. But when she saw him, saw the scintillating green of his eyes and the familiar smile – his real smile, not the Slytherin smirk – she wouldn't have been able to describe how she felt without using every cliché she'd ever read in a fairytale as a girl. For a moment she could only stare, feeling her insides seize up until she couldn't breathe. Then one of her friends shoved her gently towards him, and the breath that had abandoned her came back in a single whisper. 

"Marcus." 

"Insert collective 'awwwwwww'," Warrington muttered, moving away from his former captain as Marcus and Penelope stared at each other, the whole glittering-eyes-and-rapt-expressions thing very much going on, the air between them almost crackling with intensity. "I should finish my job as the ever-helpful evil pillock of doom and shove them into the nearest closet, and hope that Flint knows his defrocking charms..."

But it turned out that Flint did not need quite that much assistance after all, for he reached for the Ravenclaw girl and took her arm. "A walk?" 

Penelope mutely nodded, and Flint had the decency to flash a 'I owe you, you snarky bastard' smirk in his former teammate's direction. Warrington grinned back, and called out, quite loudly, "All right well Flint... don't treat my date too poorly. I'm off to get a drink and if you two are back before the punch bowl is empty, I'll be very upset at you."

Penny's face flushed a carnation pink even as Marcus led her towards the doors.

Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Warrington grinned smugly and made his way towards the punch bowl, blithely refreshing the Refilling Charm that had been placed on it earlier that evening. 

"Where's your date?" a pert little voice sounded behind him. Warrington turned around to see Su Li, clad in royal blue, eyeing him curiously and with a slight hint of disapproval, "And here I thought you were so desperately in love with Penelope, giving flowers and all."

Warrington chuckled, reaching out to pat her head in a friendly manner, "Jealous, little Li? I daresay she's happy right now, wherever she is, so her specific location is a moot point."

Su wrinkled her nose. "You Slytherins," she proclaimed, "Are a twisted, evil lot."

"Why yes, and everyone else either loves us for it -- like you--" he smirked, ignoring her look of outrage, "Or they're forced to hate us for it... like that one over there."

He nodded in the direction of Percy Weasley, here on behalf of Mr. Crouch, who was staring at the door that Penelope and Marcus had exited out of with a strained expression on his face. 

~*~

Percy's face was carefully blank as he watched a girl with dark hair and SILVER robes walk out with a man whose facial structure and gait unmistakably marked him as Marcus Flint. He was busy now, he'd moved on, and he was usually happy... but STILL...

Hard to swallow, was all. 

He almost didn't even notice the girl who walked towards him until she was right in front of him. "'Lo, Percy."

It took a few moments to recognize her, for it certainly wasn't her usual vivacious, bookworm self complete with quill behind her ear and flyaway curls. "Hermione, good evening. Er... how are you?"

She shrugged, "I don't know where Harry and Ron have gone off to, and Viktor got called away by Karkaroff. But I'm all right. You look troubled."

She bit her lip, glancing up at him anxiously. He made himself smile. "Just things on my mind is all..." he explained vaguely, "Er, you look nice."

"Thanks," she flushed slightly, "So do you. What are you doing here all alone, though?"

He shrugged. "I came here by myself. Mr. Crouch couldn't make it." 

Hermione nodded slowly, "Er, all right." Pause. Silence. "I'll leave you to your thoughts, if you like."

"No, that's fine," he said hurriedly, "Actually, want to dance or something?" He really didn't want to be left alone to his thoughts.

She nodded, a bit startled, and he gave her a grateful smile even as he held out his arm to her.

~*~

His hand was warm around hers as they left the castle for the enchanted grotto outside. Penny felt her breath hitch slightly, and it wasn't really from trying to keep up with his agitated pace. "Er, how've you been?" she asked, not sure what to say. He looked... older, more serious than she'd remembered.

"All right," he replied quietly, coming to a stop near a bench. Quickly casting a warming and cushioning charm on the stone surface, he pulled her down to sit next to him. "You... look nice." Silver, pure, perfect... a strand of pearls on her neck and a gray-flecked green lily in her hair. 

She blushed slightly, "Thanks." She shivered slightly, but it wasn't really because of the cold. "Anything... interesting go on with your life?"

From his eyes, she knew that BOTH of them had so much more to say than pleasantries and politeness, but it had been six months and now... now her heart was too full, so full that if she'd let out the words, her whole heart would flood in a torrent of emotion and passion out from her lips and the very idea made her a bit scared and dizzy. 

"You came here with Cassius," he suddenly remarked.

"He asked me," she replied quietly, "I mean... we're not interested in each other like that, never were... I couldn't figure out why he'd ask me until..."

"That he's a fool, no less so than Weasel was, for not seeing what I see," he cut her off, "Is undeniable. But I can't say that I'm not glad that he's not interested in you."

Now his eyes were boring into hers, his gaze sweeping slowly over her features as if trying to memorize everything from the curls framing her face to the flush in her cheeks. She parted her lips, and spoke something too low for him to hear. "What did you say?" he asked, leaning slightly closer.

And then she was smiling and shaking as if from happy tears, her carefully done hair crushed against his shoulder even as she threw herself into his arms. "I'll have to thank him... you... you're HERE..."

And this was it, and he couldn't help a triumphant expression from breaking out across his face even as he held her closer, hands clenching around fistfuls of silver fabric as he buried his face in her hair and inhaled... roses, just like he'd remembered. "Why yes, Miss Perfect," he drawled slightly, pulling back slightly to smirk at her, "I'm here. I dare you to try to get rid of me."

She glared at him, "I dare you to try to get away."

"No can do, I'm afraid," he chuckled, a feeling of exhilaration running through him even as he moved his rough hands towards her heart-shaped face, cupping her chin up and seizing her lips with his. She kissed back eagerly, fingers moving back to caress the hair at the nape of his neck, a little moan rising in her throat. 

When they parted, her face was rosy and her eyes were soft and dreamy. Lifting a hand to touch his cheek, she whispered, "I was hoping you'd say that."

Grabbing her hand and using it to pull her towards him again, he growled, "Far be it from me to disappoint a lady." 

And then their lips fused again, and there was no more talking for a long time.

~*~

Later, when she looked a complete mess, rumpled robes half-slipping off one shoulder and hair tumbling over her shoulders in riotous curls and lips swollen from countless kisses, he smirked, pulling her back into a seated position. "Think I should return you to your date? I daresay that with the amount of people there, punch bowl should be empty by now."

Her eyes suddenly glittered at him, almost impishly, and she reached up to brush another light kiss upon his lips. "Marcus..."

"Hmm?"

"The punch bowls have all been charmed to magically refill themselves all night long."

He felt the beginnings of a very wide grin tugging at the corners of his lips, even as he reached for her again. "Well then... I'll just have to KEEP you."

"I'll hold you to that," she said breathlessly.

"Fine by me," he muttered, "Now do be quiet, Penny."

She obeyed.


End file.
